


Dear Jamie

by bonnie_wee_swordsman



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Father/Daughter Feels, Fraser Family Feels, Jamie and Bree, Lallybroch, Missing Scene, Voyager, Wishing, standalone ficlet, what might have been
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7324348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonnie_wee_swordsman/pseuds/bonnie_wee_swordsman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a recent Tumblr post in which I lamented that I couldn't *believe* Brianna wouldn't have thought to write a letter to Jamie and send it with Claire when she returned through the stones in Voyager, given that it was (ostensibly) her only chance in life to communicate with him. </p><p>At the urging of one of my followers, I decided to explore what might have gone on in Brianna's mind if she had tried to write such a letter.</p><p>**Updated with an unplanned part 2!**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Inverness_

_October 8, 1968_

 

“Bree? _Bree_ are you up there?”

I jumped out of my skin at the sudden noise, instinctively yelled back, “Yes! I’m here!” and instantly regretted it. _Crap_ , he was already halfway up the steps. I kicked off my hiking boots and flung my half-filled pack under the bed, hopping onto the coverlet just as Roger entered.

“What shall we do today, then, darlin’?” His merry eyes sparkled. “Fancy a day trip somewhere? Your mother won’t be back from scouting out the old streets of Edinburgh until day after next. We could go over to Aberdeen, maybe, or up to Skye!”

“Erm, well…to be honest, Roger, I’m not feeling the greatest today,” I said, doing my best to appear tired and puny. “Would you be totally mad at me if I decided to be lame and stay in? I could do with a lazy, reading-in-bed kind of day.”

He clearly _was_ disappointed, but his smile was genuine all the same. “You’re not ‘lame,’ and _no_ , I won’t be ‘totally mad,” he said, poking fun at my apparently _very American_ turn of phrase. “Is everything alright, though? Can I get you anything before I go? Aspirin? A Coke? Biscuits, maybe?”

“That's sweet of you, but I’m fine, thanks. Just a little droopy today.”

" _Droopy_?” he laughed, shaking his head, “Where do you come up with these _words_?”

“Oh, you _really_ want to go there, lad? We are, after all, in the land of _peely-wally_ , _fankle_ , and _tattie-bogle!_ ”

“ _Touché_ ,” he grinned, leaning in to kiss me with a contented _hmm_. “Well, I’ll leave you to your book, then. Phone me tomorrow, if you’re feeling up for something. Or tonight, even, if you want to go out to the pub.”

“I’ll call you, I promise. Thanks, Roger.”

Two hours later, I was hoofing it up the punishingly steep incline of the mountain, peering at my photocopied map. I _had_ to be getting close.

I felt terrible for sneaking around behind Roger’s back. I did. But I’d wanted this from the beginning for this to be an excursion I made alone.

I clambered up the rocks, keeping near to the bounding stream, nearly a waterfall in places, so treacherous was the grade. The day was cold, but I was still sweating like a pig, and had to stop to remove my jacket and stuff it into my backpack. At last, huffing and heaving, I spotted the large white rock that matched Fiona’s description of Leap O’ the Cask. Almost there, then.

“Come on, come _on_ …” I muttered, peering around intently, high and low.

And then, after a quarter hour of searching, I saw it: the lip of a tiny stone outcropping at the base of a hill, all but covered by gorse. I set my backpack down under a Rowan and crouched down. Yes! It was the entrance to a cave or cavern of some kind, and black as a tomb. I flicked on my borrowed flashlight and—praying fiercely that there were no wolves or venomous snakes in this part of the highlands—lowered myself into the darkness.

 _Jesus Christ_.

Never had I imagined it would be so _small;_  no more than eight feet long from end to end. The presence of modern visitors was evidenced by the cigarette butts and rude graffiti all about; but there were also dark patches on the walls and floor where fires had clearly been lit, long ago. I traced the granite walls with my fingertips as I walked slowly around the perimeter. There were faint vertical lines visible in a few places; tally marks counting the days?

I reached the back wall and sat down with my back against it. On impulse, I flicked off my flashlight. I sat completely still in the blackness for a long time, my burning sweat now ice-water in the frigid dark.

 _If Jamie Fraser had truly been the Dunbonnet_... _and I was_ sure _that he had_ _…_

 _...then he lived here. Here, in this tiny hole, in the dark for years…God,_ years.  _While I was having birthday parties, and going to movies, and learning to ski...he lived in this frozen, stone box...hunted...and_ alone.

I took in a sharp breath, bowled over. For the first time...I thought I truly understood Jamie’s decision to send Mama and me through the stones: _it was so that we—his wife and child—would never have to live like this, too._

I felt a cold drop slide down the neck of my blouse and peered up, looking for a tell-tale stalactite. Only when a draft rippled across my face did I realize my cheeks were wet. I inhaled raggedly, and said to the darkness, “Thank you...for my life.”

My whisper echoed alarmingly, ghostlike, and I scrambled to my feet—heart pounding—and out of the cave as quickly as I could. After the icy darkness, even the chilly, October sunshine felt gloriously warm on my skin, and I stood for a few minutes, breathing deeply, my teary eyes closed and turned to the sky.

With sudden decision, I grabbed my pack and climbed up the small hill atop the cave. Finding a grassy spot overlooking the valley, I fished out my sketchbook and pencil. I wasn’t intending to draw, though.  

 

> _Dear…_

_That’s fine...anyone can be ‘dear’ in a letter, right? Dear_ what _, though?_ _Dear Father? Dear James? Dear Mr. Fraser?_

>   _Dear Jamie..._

I'd referred to Daddy as ‘Frank’ before, if not called him so to his face; it didn't seem _terribly_ impertinent. In fact, it seemed _right_ , somehow. It implied that I knew something about this man, something I couldn't have learned from historical records...something that would only be known by people that knew and loved him.   _What on earth did I want to say to him, though?_

I sighed. May _as well start with the basics and work our way up._

>   _It’s me, your daughter, Brianna._

_There. Nothing wrong with that_. I tried out a few more sentences, then examined my progress in total. 

>   _Dear Jamie,_
> 
> _It’s me, your daughter, Brianna._
> 
> _I'm alive and well. Thank you for what you did for me._

I cringed. _Well, that’s just_ terrible _, even the first bit that seemed fine a minute ago. Assuming the letter reaches him, Mama will be there to tell him who I am, my name, and that I'm alive. And that next part?: “Thank you for what you did for me?”_ Jeez _, this isn't a grade school thank-you note to a great-aunt, for pete’s sake!_ I had the insane urge to scrawl “My favorite color is purple” and “I want to be a ballerina when I grow up” to complete the effect. 

I crossed it all out.

 _Think_. _What did I_ need _him to know? What did I want to say to this father that I would never meet?_   

>    _I wish I had been able to know you._

I did wish that. I’d wished it every day since I’d seen the fair-haired woman vanish through the stones of _Craigh na Dun_ and I finally knew him to be real. _Surely I can say that more eloquently, though...We’ll come back to that,_ I reasoned brightly. _At least the basic idea’s on paper._

 _What else…? What else_ matters _?_

>   _I'm proud of you. For saving your men. For giving yourself up to save your family at Lallybroch. For your sacrifice._

_And...what more?_

>   _Take care of Mama for me_.

My eyes began to brim. _Yes, that was important._ _One of the most important._

>     _I'm giving her back to you. She needs you. Please be good to her._

_And finally..._

>    _I love you._

I immediately scratched it out, then poised the pencil to write it again...then hesitated. _Could I love someone I'd never met? Did he love_ me _? Could either of us, really, truly, love the other?_  Probably not; but the ache I felt in my chest at thought of him...the _longing_ …surely that wasn’t _nothing_ _._  

I skimmed the letter again to determine if an assurance of love seemed appropriate in context of what I'd already written.

My heart sank.

 _Brianna Ellen Ran—Fra—_ YOU _, whoever you are: this is_ PATHETIC _. This is the_ one and only opportunity _you’ll ever have to communicate with the man who gave you life. So...get your_ damned _act together and find a way to say what you need to without sounding so_ effing juvenile, _or else he'll_   _spend the rest of his days knowing he spawned a_ simpleton _!_

I scratched. I reworded. I outlined and drafted and retried and failed and finally flung the notebook down the hill in frustration. “Why can I not do this?” I yelled to the valley, “Why is this so damn hard??”

 _But_ is  _it, though?_

Is it _what_? I snapped. _Hard_? _Yes,_ damn it. I don't know how I'm supposed to speak to him! I don't know the right words to—

_Is it really the ‘one and only opportunity?’_

Of course it is, don’t be ridiculous. Mama’s going through the stones and won't be coming back.

You  _can go through, too..._

Silence.

 _Do you really want to be_ here _, alone, wondering, forever?_

Mama’s made her decision and I support it. She has to go to him.

 _True, but that's not what I asked_.

I'm trying to write a letter. Just leave me alone. 

I ran my hands backward through my hair, breathing through my nose.

 _You don't need to write him a letter_ …. _Don't you know that_ _already_?

I stared out over the valley. I imagined I could make out the silhouette of the house. The tower. The fields and pastures of Jamie’s home. I exhaled. 

_Ready?_

I nodded. 

Terrified, but also oddly calm, I rose to my feet and walked down the hill to retrieve my battered sketchbook. Moving to the stream, I neatly removed the pages, tore them into quarters, and laid the pieces in the current, watching them sail down the cascade like tiny, white rafts.

Very well, then.

I repacked and and shouldered my backpack, turning once more to the spot where the mouth of the cave lay hidden. I could almost picture him there, looking out toward Lallybroch. Toward me.

“I’ll  _tell_ it all to you. I will. One day.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet was not at all intended to be a two-parter.I concluded the last piece with the idea that Brianna chose not to write to Jamie because, deep down, she already knew that one day she would go through the stones herself.  
> However, thanks to the request of a lovely anon on Tumblr, I’ve written a wee follow up (wherein Brianna didn't send a letter, but had another idea).

_Edinburgh_

_November, 1766_

 

Jamie woke in the night with a jolt. Then he relaxed and nearly went to tears from joy. Claire, _his Claire_ , had walked into his shop today, and was now lying here beside him, as perfect and graceful as though she had been carved of white stone.

“ _Mo ghraidh_ ,” he whispered to her in the dark. His love. His everything. The spoken word, inspired by tenderness, came out sounding unmistakably urgent, almost _anxious_ in the still of the night, and small wonder, if so. He wanted so badly to touch her. Wanted to kiss every inch of her. Wanted to draw her close against him, _around_ him, and not let go for another twenty years. But she was sleeping so peacefully...and he was fair starved.

Raising himself quietly out of the bed, he tiptoed carefully in the direction of the door. He hadn’t had time to restock the bedside table, but his stomach was growling loud enough to merit a trip down to the kitchens. After a moment’s reflection, he plucked his shirt from the end of the bed and pulled it over his head as he walked. The sight of a naked man would certainly be no novelty in this place, but surely Claire wouldn't be pleased to learn after the fact that--

Temporarily blinded by the shirt still halfway over his face, his toe collided with the leg of a wooden chair and he stumbled, flailing in the darkness and catching whatever had been resting on the chair in the crook of his thumb as he grappled with the air. A clatter resounded as whatever it was catapulted across the floor, he himself following suit right behind it.

Subsuming a string of curses into a low growl, he snapped his head in the direction of the bed. Thankfully, _somehow_ , Claire was still asleep. Toe still throbbing, he stumped across to the fire and stoked it, bringing light into the darkened room so that he might survey the damage.

It was Claire’s traveling satchel that he had happened to grab while falling. He had apparently flung it quite hard, for what appeared to be the entirety of its contents were now strewn across the floor. He got to his hands and knees to gather the detritus.

A small pouch of coins.

A packet of....he didn’t rightly know what they were, at that. Needles, some narrow glass cylinders of some sort, and what looked to be tiny, colored pebbles. Baffled, he replaced their pouch carefully in the satchel.

Some papers.

A pair of gloves.

A white envelope. _Strange_ , he thought, that it should be sealed so, without any trace of wax. And made of the smoothest paper he’d ever felt. _Lord, was this elegant stuff what they used for letters in the future?_ Whatever was inside was heavy, as far as paper went. He gingerly tried flexing it _: stiff as a board._ Curious, he turned it over to examine the front, and his heart very nearly stopped.

> _Dear Jamie._

It wasn’t Claire’s hand, he'd have sworn to it. His heart pounded.

There was only one other person alive two hundred years hence who would know his name and have reason to...

> _Dear Jamie._

Unopened... _Surely_ , if Claire had known of this, she would have given it to him with the photographs and the lass’s kiss?

> _Dear Jamie._

Hands shaking, he groped on the nearby table for his knife and knelt by the fire, carefully slitting the thing open. Even in the dim light, he could see a flash of bright color within. _Another photograph, then? It's the proper size for it, to be sure._ Gingerly, he took hold of the thing between his fingertips and withdrew it into the light.

“Good God in Heaven,” he breathed, meaning every word.

_It was perfect. The colors so rich and real. Every detail of the house, the valley, all of it captured in exquisite detail, as though every daub of paint was made of the very earth and air of Lallybroch. The very color of the stone of the house. The exact way the mountain cast its shadows in late afternoon. The slope and swoop of the fields and pastures he knew by heart. The exact bend and grace of the tree by the dooryard, in full October glory. It was all there, captured in tiny, miraculous strokes._

_And in the foreground, three figures sat on the crest of the broch hill, their backs to view. A woman--dark hair loose and flowing, gowned in green and brown--leaned back easily on both hands, head turned in profile to smile fondly at her companions. A red-haired man in shirt and plaid (the tartan all wrong, but that didn’t matter) was pointing to something in the distance. His face was hidden from view, but his head was cocked low as though to better hear the wee lass. She was very young indeed, surely no more than five or so. She was leaned against him, snuggled right against his hip and supported by his arm planted behind her. Her eyes, chin, and tiny snub nose were just visible behind the tremendous curtain of copper. She wasn’t following the direction in which he pointed, though. She was looking up into his face._

“ _Jesus_ , lass…” he tried to croak, but couldn't manage it. He was, quite literally, dumbstruck.

It was as if she had reached in and plucked the scene directly from his dreams, those deepest and most closely-guarded of his dreams. Created in abject loneliness, played over and over in his mind; a tiny respite, an ounce of fleeting salvation to which he had clung amid so many years of darkness, and cold, and longing. To see it here played out, practically _breathing_ in his hand...

A sob burst forth to break the night silence, and he pressed the back of his hand hard to his lips, unable to tear his eyes away, no matter how fiercely they stung.

Claire’s photographs had shown him another world. This…

This showed him _his_.

Shaking, barely able to see for the dark and tears, he turned the tiny, precious thing over, losing his breath entirely as he read the words; the two most beautiful words that had ever been written to him.

> _Love,_
> 
> _Brianna_


End file.
